


Nightmares

by pengwingstereotype



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221b, Afghanistan, Fluff, Insomnia, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nightmares, Requited Love, TJLC, i dont know what to put, no mary of course, sherlock soothing john, war memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 23:43:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8422243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pengwingstereotype/pseuds/pengwingstereotype
Summary: Sherlock soon puts a stop to John's Afghanistan nightmares.





	

Sometimes, he almost fell asleep.  
He hated those nights. When it was all he could do not to fall into the nightmares: the screams and the blood, and the knowledge that this was what he wanted.

While he was out there his pals would say that they couldn't wait to go home. But he knew. He knew that for him, home was just to be alive.

That was before 221B, and Sherlock.

His first night there, he refused to let himself sleep, just like every other night before then. He had coffee the next morning, in a tea cup as usual, and flipped the pages of a newspaper to stop his eyes from drooping. It had always been hard not showing how tired he was, but he managed. He'd gotten used to interrupted nights, after all.

Sherlock noticed. John knew that. But they both pretended.

The second night, he didn't give in either. He tried very hard, and there had been so many nights now that had been empty as he stared at the ceiling, trying to be as uncomfortable as possible so he wouldn't give in to the dark, and the dreams, that it almost wasn't so bad. It at least wasn't as bad as the nights where he didn't struggle in the dark, though his eyes were always focusing and refocusing, trying desperately to find a light source. He never switched the light on. It didn't feel right.

He'd always had an active imagination apparently, and his therapist drew on that, but he didn't need one. He knew all the horrors from real life, just like all his friends had known them before they heard the gunfire stop and the red soaked fields vanish in a haze of blackness.

Sometimes John Watson regretted that he hadn't died.

The third night he couldn't do it.

He gave in to those horrible dreams: always different, but always the same.

John writhed in bed, forced to watch and rewatch the death: his uniform glinting in the light and the flashing of guns and blood in the sun; everything rushed, barely visible and just a faint whisper surrounding him as he tried in vain to save people he already knew were dead, who had no chance, just so they weren't given up on.

"John?"

That voice, a welcome interruption to what he endured every night, glowing in the darkest pits of hell and leading him out: that voice was the one he fell in love with instantly.

He woke up with sweat dripping down his forehead and slim, pale arms wrapped around him. Looking over, he saw Sherlock Holmes, peacefully asleep as always. He had to smile.

His ceiling had never been a beautiful thing. It was what he stared at in despair and in terror. But now, it was something he looked at in relief.

The next morning, he only noticed he'd fallen asleep again after that call to reality in Sherlock's arms when he woke up and the feeling of tiredness wasn't there. It was strange - but what was much stranger was that he hadn't had the dreams there with those soft breaths beside him, and the knees in the way of all the usual turning and tossing. Those horrible dreams: always different, but always the same.

That time the dreams were gone. And every night after that. Because Sherlock was always there beside him, saving him as usual.


End file.
